by Pintip Dunn
Before I can respond, she practically runs off the field.
I frown. Is it Carr? What did he ever do to her? They couldn’t have had a previous…relationship. Could they have? No. Now I’m just being paranoid. But oh Dion, what if they did?
When I look up, he’s watching me. Not Blanca, her stride graceful even in her escape. But me. There’s a first for everything.
“Good morning, Vela.” Will I ever get used to that voice? Deep and smooth, like a stone that’s been polished round by the current of a river.
“I don’t know how to act around you anymore,” I blurt out. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Something wrong with ‘hello’?”
I shake my head. “We spent the last ten years being casual friends—and then yesterday…” I swallow hard, not sure how to put into words how yesterday felt. “I’m not sure if I should treat you like a candidate or my best friend’s brother. Like my mysterious rescuer…or…”
“How about just Carr?” he says. “I’ve always had to be someone for everyone. The responsible brother. The hard-working son. It would be nice to just be me.”
“I can do that,” I say, and the pressure retreats from my chest.
We exchange a smile, and I’m very aware—and very glad—that I haven’t turned on the recorder.
He looks in the direction of Blanca’s departure. “Was that your sister?”
Pop goes the bubble rising in my chest. The worst part? I hadn’t even known it was forming.
“Yep.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “You remember her from when we were kids?”
“She’s hard to forget. She certainly made an impression on the guys.”
“Blanca always makes an impression.” I’m so ridiculous. Of course Carr noticed her. Everyone notices Blanca.
“See, I never got that.” He takes a step closer to me. “Back when my mom worked in the royal kitchen, everyone always talked about how beautiful she was, despite her slenderness. But you know what I think when I look at her?”
“What?” I ask, not sure I want to know.
“That I never heard anyone scream so loudly after accidentally touching a worm.”
I giggle. “She was the champion screamer, wasn’t she? Still is.”
This would be the time to tell him about the dish of worms. I open my mouth, hoping the courage will magically appear, and then, the loop around my neck vibrates.
I jump. Blanca didn’t tell me it could do that.
“Princess Vela.” Master Somjing’s voice emits from the wire. Blanca didn’t say it was a two-way transmitter, either. “Your first interviewee is waiting.”
I look toward the arches separating the courtyard from the athletic field, where a tent’s been erected for me to conduct the rest of my interviews. Master Somjing stands next to the blue canvas, his mechanical braces glinting under the sun lamps.
“Please remember to turn on the recorder in the presence of a candidate,” Master Somjing continues.
Hastily, I reach behind my neck and flip on the switch. “I’ll talk to you later?” I say to Carr.
He places his hand on my arm. The touch isn’t urgent, the way it was yesterday, but the spark is just as burning, fire-poker hot. One shift forward. That’s all it would take to close the gap between us. To turn my fantasies into reality.
“I’m counting on it.” His voice—and his words—make me shiver, even if the sun lamps are directly overhead.
I swallow hard and hurry to the tent. My goal is still the same—to make sure Carr doesn’t win. But for whom am I really saving him? For Astana?
Or for myself?
Chapter
Ten
“Your parents own a perfumery?” I ask the candidate across from me. We don’t have too many “luxury” industries in our colony. But if the business doesn’t take too much space, the council may approve a proposal to open a new shop in the interest of balancing survival with societal advancement.
“Oh, yes.” Freckles spill over York’s cheeks like cinnamon dashed over a pie, and his big voice fills the dome-like interior of the tent. “I’ve been apprenticing in the lab for the past couple years. My dad insists that people will always prefer the florals, but I’ve been experimenting with some food scents. You know—Baked Bread, Apple Strudel, Spaghetti Marinara.” He leans forward, placing his palms on his thighs. “Go ahead. Test me. I guarantee I’ll identify more scents than any guy here.”
I shift on the ground, where we’re both sitting with our legs crossed. “Uh, I don’t have any food with me.”
“Oh.” Everything about York droops. His shoulders, his mouth, his voice. Even his hands slide off his knees. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment to shine, and I’ve shut him down before he can even begin.
“Maybe we can go to the Banquet Hall later,” I offer. “I’ll blindfold you, and you can tell me what you smell.”
He smiles so broadly his freckles smash together. “You are a class act, Princess.” He picks up my hand and gives it a chaste lick, and I start. The gesture is one of the ways the people express gratitude and respect, but it’s reserved for a particularly close mentor or counselor. I’ve always been the people’s Princess. But I’ve never been their friend.
“What’s more, you would smell absolutely delicious in my new Mashed Potatoes & Gravy scent,” he continues. “If you wear it, maybe my dad will be convinced to give my experiments a try.”
I smile and nod, even though my throat vibrates with the need to laugh. “Anytime.”
He leaves the tent. Yesterday, I would’ve taken notes, so that I could input the data into CORA later. Today, the recorder eliminates the need for this step.
York seems like a nice guy. I know I’m supposed to be evaluating his worthiness as a candidate. Is this the boy we want to represent our colony? Are these the qualities we want to put on a pedestal? But I can’t focus on these questions. All I can think is: I don’t want him to die, either. In fact, I don’t want any of them to die.
All of a sudden, I understand the motivation behind Master Somjing’s physical trials. It wasn’t just to discover the most athletically fit candidate. It was also a way for him to survive. Since the Fittest Trials began, Master Somjing has been the one in charge. Ten times CORA’s chosen a candidate, and ten times the final veto has come down to him.
A pang slices through my chest for the gruff, old councilman. It’s all the more piercing because I know exactly how he feels.
I’ll need a miracle to get out of this one with my heart intact.
…
As soon as my last interviewee ducks under the tent, I sense he’s different from the other candidates. Zelo Hale is not as muscular as Jupiter or Carr, but he walks with a physical grace, as though he knows exactly where his body is, and what it’s doing, at any single moment. His lips are relaxed, his eyes so calm I might think he was sleeping if he wasn’t lowering himself onto the ground across from me.
An eerie sense of familiarity washes over me. “Have we met?”
“I don’t believe so,” he says. “Unless you’ve prayed at the Temple.”
Ah. That’s why he seems familiar. He’s part of the order that worships the gods from the old religions. They talk and move in the same way, each word and footstep a measured beat, and they dress in plain, simple robes. If he weren’t wearing the candidates’ uniform of gray shirt and navy pants, I might’ve recognized him by his attire.
“If you aren’t part of the Order, maybe you subscribe to the new trend of calling on our mythological gods,” he says. “Zeus and Hades and the like.”
“Neither, really,” I say. “I may use those words, but it’s cultural. They don’t reflect what I truly believe.”
“And what’s that?”
I blink. Not once, in any of the interviews, has a candidate turned the spotlight onto me so efficiently.
“I believe in my mother,” I say quietly. “I believe she didn’t cease to exist when her physical body expired. I
’ve felt her presence as I walk in the woods. Her touch whispers over me when I tilt my face to the stars, looking for answers. I know she’s here with me, even if she’s in a different realm.”
He nods, as if satisfied with my answer. I, in turn, feel as though I’ve passed some kind of test. As though I’ve been deemed worthy to hear his answers.
“You’ll understand, then, why I’m competing to be the Fittest.” He folds his hands together, as though in prayer. “I believe it is God’s will.”
My eyes widen. He actually thinks it is God’s will that he die for my father?
“Let me explain.” He leans forward and gestures to my handheld. “Does that tell you why they call me ‘Zelo’?”
I shake my head.
“I was dumped in front of the Baby Unit a few weeks after I was born. I had zero family and zero prospects in life. I was nothing but a big, fat zero, with a birth certificate to prove it. Some nice worker at the orphanage took pity on me and changed a single letter on the certificate, so the rest of the world wouldn’t know how much my parents loathed me.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re telling me your parents named you ‘Zero’?”
“You can clearly see the smudge over the L where the certificate’s been fixed.”
I curl my hands into fists, trying to imagine a world where my family didn’t want me. Where I had no father, no mother. No Blanca. “I’m sorry,” I say. Completely inadequate. But how else can I respond?
“Don’t be. Even today, zero people would miss me if I were gone. I have a few fond memories of those Baby Unit workers, but I’ve made no lasting connections in my eighteen years. No friends, no relationship. The others in the Order respect me, but they don’t know me. They don’t know my thoughts or feelings, my likes or dislikes.” He stops, as if the words are a squirming squid that’s difficult to swallow. “I’ve moved through life looking for meaning. That’s why I started praying at the Temple. Because I was trying to understand my purpose here. And for a long time, I came up with nothing.
“Then, you spoke to us yesterday. And it all came together. I felt God speaking directly to me. This is why I was set on this planet. This is why I’ve been alone and unloved. I was born to die for the King, and my death is meant to leave as few scars as possible.”
My skin begins to tingle. His words are passionate and powerful. But more than that, they reach deep inside me because they feel like the truth. What if he’s right? What if he is fated for this role?
A boy who will leave no loved ones behind. One who will fulfill his life’s mission through his death. One who sincerely and rapturously wants to follow God’s will, even if it means dying.
I think I’ve found him. A boy fit to die for the King. A boy who will save Carr.
For the first time since the Trials began, my stomach isn’t tied up in knots.
For the first time since I learned about my task, I see a way out of my conundrum.
For the first time since I agreed to choose a boy to die, I feel one unconflicting emotion: relief.
Chapter
Eleven
Zelo may be fit to die for the King, but is it too much to ask that he also be physically fit?
I pop a tortilla chip into my mouth and wish I were eating Miss Sydney’s caramel cricket crunch instead. Wish I had time for more than a quick visit with her this morning. I could barely look in her eyes when I told her I was administering this year’s Fittest Trials. But she just wrapped her arms around me and said she was sure I would make the right decision, one that would honor her son.
The air in the glassed-in spectator box is cool and crisp, with a scent of pine needles blowing from the vents.
Below me, on the quarter-mile track that winds through the wheat fields, all twenty of the remaining candidates trudge, carrying sacks of rocks on their shoulders. Sweat streams down their backs, and their feet kick up storm clouds of dirt.
It’s the first event, and I opted to use a challenge from my own Aegis Trials.
The current leader, Carr, is going strong with twenty-three laps. And Zelo, the candidate on which I’ve pinned all my hopes, the boy who’s been sent on a mission by God himself? In last place with a measly ten laps.
I shove another chip in my mouth and then cram in another six. I have a lot of nutrition to make up if I’m going to meet my quota this month.
“This is awful, just awful,” I mumble. “How can he be last? CORA’s never going to pick a physical cream puff.”
“Cheer for him,” a voice behind me says.
I whip around, the nachos flying in the air. I thought I was the only person in the spectator box, but grinning at me, and now covered in crickets and salsa, is my cousin.
“Denver! You scared me!” I crunch past the chips littering the floor and press my wrist against his.
He leans in and takes a whiff. “You smell nice. Like jalapeños and onions. Trying out one of that boy York’s experimental perfumes?” He plucks a chip from my hair. “Wearing the food as accessories, too, I see.”
I roll my eyes and lead him back to the window overlooking the track, where three platters of nachos await. “What are you doing here? And how do you know anything about York?”
“Master Somjing told me. I came by to see you. And Carr.”
My foot catches on the metal floor, and I stumble. Of course. His friendship with Carr goes back almost as far as his relationship with me. But while they were drawn together by common interests like tree-climbing and fishing, Denver and I are bonded by blood. His late father was the King’s brother, and we were playmates, and then classmates, for most of our lives. When his father passed, however, his mother petitioned the King for a living unit separate from the rest of the colony.
Not easy to find isolation in twelve square miles of bubbles. The best the King could do was set them up in a small cottage in the Agriculture Bubble, behind the dense mass of fish farms.
I get my aunt’s need for isolation. But I miss my old friend. Once upon a time, I could’ve ordered his daily snacks. Now, I can’t predict his tastes or thoughts about anything.
“Are you mad that I’m letting Carr participate in the Trials?” My voice is so small it could hide between the tongue and grooves of the floor.
“Carr’s always done what he believes necessary. It’s why we’re friends. Once we’ve settled on a goal, you couldn’t stop either of us if you tried.” He places a plastic box tied with a blue ribbon on the table.
Which means he’s staying. And not mad.
My chest lighter, I perch on a chair next to him. “Astana doesn’t know. I have no idea how I’m going to tell her.”
“Don’t. It will only upset her.”
True. But I’ve never lied to my best friend before. Never omitted anything, either. But I don’t intend to let Carr win, so maybe Denver’s right. Maybe there’s no need to say a word.
“Are you going to cheer for him?” my cousin asks.
“Who?”
He gestures out the window. “The pill popper about to lose it. The one you obviously want to win.”
“You mean Zelo?” Of course he means Zelo. No one else has that lurching gait and flambè-apple-face. “And don’t call him pill popper.”
“You know I don’t mean anything by it.”
And he doesn’t. Denver is the son of a colonist mother and an Aegis father. Such unions are always heartbreaking, as one spouse is guaranteed to die decades before the other.
“Why do you want him to die?” my cousin asks in his direct way.
I grab another tortilla chip. It’s cold and chewy, and there’s no way it can get past the lump in my throat. “I don’t. But if I have to pick someone, Zelo is the best choice. He thinks he’s fulfilling the will of God.”
Denver whistles. “There’s no better reason than that.”
My throat relaxes, and I can swallow the chip, after all. He doesn’t argue with my explanation. Doesn’t judge me for allowing his old buddy to take part. He’s just De
nver. The guy on whom I’ve always been able to count, from helping me catch glass-jar grasshoppers to now.
“I wish I could cheer for Zelo. But that would be favoritism.”
“Speak straight into his earpiece,” he advises, in the confident tone of someone who was born knowing how to get what he wants. “The others won’t hear you, and the voice of the Princess will spur him on.”
No way. I want Zelo to win, but that would be cheating. Right?
Carr’s in the lead, a voice inside me says. And Zelo’s last. Not second to last. Not bottom quartile last. Dead. Last.
What can a few phrases of encouragement hurt? They’re just words. Intangible things that disappear as soon as they’re said. Like particles of dust that blow away when the wind fans pass overhead. Like dew drops that disappear as the day progresses. How can a few measly syllables qualify as cheating?
Quickly, before I change my mind, I turn off my loop, detach the transmitter from the wall, and key in the code for Zelo’s earpiece.
“Come on, Zelo. You can do it.” My voice is as flat and impersonal as CORA’s.
Denver pulls me to my feet and dances me around. “You’re trying to motivate him, not put him to sleep.”
“Looking good!” Now I sound like one of the Peppy Bots. “Keep up the great work! You’ve got this!”
“Better. Now say it like you mean it.”
I keep going, babbling countless permutations of “Go, go, go!”
The cheering works. Zelo looks up at the spectator box, and his strides become longer, more forceful and deliberate. Pretty soon, he’s no longer gasping for breath, and he appears to be getting a second wind.
I return the transmitter to the panel, my mouth as dry and gritty as desert sand. I did it. I threw my support behind Zelo. I influenced the outcome of the challenge.
I targeted a boy to die.
Oh, Dionysus. What have I done? I collapse into the chair, but my heart keeps going, through the floor of the spectator box, past the grass, into Dion’s bubbling core. I try to breathe, but my lungs have locked up. I try to sit up, but my shoulders have turned to stone.